


A Time For Daring

by ruric



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "There's a time for daring and there's a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for." (Dead Poets Society)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Time For Daring

Clint walks the 7 miles back to camp with a swagger in his gait and a satisfied smirk on his face.

He’s torn something in his ankle, fucked up his knee and judging by the stabbing pain in his side he’s probably got a couple or three cracked or broken ribs. But the job got done, even if it got a little messy at the end. 

He’d had to walk back because occasionally it pays to give at least some kind of lip service to borders and the sanctity of sovereign air space. 

‘Tasha’s waiting for him, sitting cross-legged and loose-limbed by the gate to their little compound sharpening one of her many knives. She looks up, as his shadow passes over her, squinting against the bright sunlight. 

“You took your time,” she says. 

He feels her gaze, feather-light yet assessing and he grins down at her ignoring the dull headache and slightly fuzzy vision. “Wasn’t being chased, so no point in running.” 

Neither of them acknowledges that his voice is a little raspy and dry.

Out of the corner of his eye Clint sees a suited figure emerge from one of the tents and head over to them. Coulson looks as unruffled as he ever does, suit clean and dark as if he can somehow repel sand and dust. It wouldn’t surprise Clint to find Bruce or Tony had cooked up some sort of forcefield for him which does exactly that. His shirt is pristine and pressed; his tie perfectly knotted, but the tightness around his eyes and the slight thinning of his lips tells Clint all he needs to know.

A cool bottle of water is pressed in to Clint’s hand and Coulson looks down to where Natasha’s head is bent over her work.

“Left ankle, right knee, two…no, three ribs on the left,” she pauses a moment and looks up with an exasperated huff. “Also, a minor concussion. His head’s not as hard as it used to be and sometimes he forgets to duck.”

“I’m standing right here, you know that, right?” He raises his hand, shakes the bottle of water in front of Coulson’s face.

“Yes, Clint, I can see you.” 

Coulson reaches out, takes the bow from Clint’s other hand, cradling it carefully in his own. It frees Clint to wrap his fingers over Coulson’s shoulder, lean a little of his weight against a familiar body and feel himself braced.

They make their way over to the medical tent and if Clint’s swagger has become more of a hobble, well, no-one’s going to say anything

“Are you slowing down?” Coulson asks with a trace of a laugh in his voice.

They both know his results in training and in the field make a lie of the question, but Clint figures he owes Phil. Clint hadn’t seen the last guard, too focused on taking the shots to eliminate his targets. A whisper of air on the back of his neck had given him enough warning to twist away, a killing blow reduced to something with less force, but it still took out his comms and Phil gets twitchy when they go unexpectedly silent in the field.

“If it makes you think you can keep up with me, then yeah, I’m slowing down, old man.”

Clint feels Phil’s huff of laughter as he’s eased through the tent flap and down onto a gurney. Phil sets the bow down, leaning it against a cabinet, within both sight and reach. 

“There’s a time for daring and a time for caution,” Phil grins down at him, “and a wise man understands which is called for.”

“Yeah well,” Clint says settling back against the pillows and giving Phil the finger, “no one ever accused me of being wise.”


End file.
